


Lionheart

by buckybees



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Catholic Steve Rogers, Enemies to Lovers, Fanart, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Medical Procedures, Prisoner Bucky Barnes, Slow Burn, Worldbuilding, royal steve rogers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:56:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26681014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckybees/pseuds/buckybees
Summary: “I thought you were going to hang me” the boy slurred, head rolling back onto Steve’s shoulder.“Don’t sound so disappointed, sweetheart”.In 1397, Prince Steven of England was stripped of his home, his title, and his parents, barely escaping with his life to a ruined castle in the north.Five years later, with the country under the tyrannical rule of the usurper king, Alexander I, a southern spy was captured stealing vital documents from the Resistance. Invasion, and Steve’s swift execution seemed inevitable.Unless the prisoner was never destined to be his undoing at all, but the key to his victory, and maybe even his heart.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 78
Kudos: 79





	1. Untold

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!!  
> Ahhhh I'm super excited to share this fic with you!! I’ve been working on it for so long! I first got the idea in April 2019 & noted it down, actually started writing it for Camp NaNoWriMo in July 2020 and now here it is!! I was going to wait until I had a full first draft to post the first chapter, but it's my 21st birthday today and with corona nothing else exciting is happening lol, so here it is! 
> 
> Also - about historical accuracy, I am a history student, so the fic shouldn't be too horribly inaccurate for medieval times (it also has an element of inaccuracy anyway in that I've changed place names etc.), but I'm sorry in advance if there are a few mistakes here and there! I'm trying to focus on writing for fun, rather than having to rigorously fact check haha :)
> 
> I really hope you enjoy it :D

In the harsh light of the setting sun, the boy looked almost skeletal. Suspended by his arms, which were yanked up behind him by crude iron shackles, his ribs jutted out abruptly from his bare chest, pale skin smudged with dirt and flecks of blood. One leg was buckling under the arrow protruding from his thigh, and his toes barely brushed the frosted ground.

Small then, Steve noted. Young. It made the splintering wooden post more painful than it should’ve been, thin lines of blood trickling down the prisoner’s arms from where the cuffs bit into his wrists.

A crow hopped across the stone floor of the courtyard, almost impatient, gaze fixed upon the boy. Another joined it, and there was nothing eerier than the birds waiting for a meal that wasn’t yet dead, so Steve kicked a pebble across the yard. 

One took off, rising above the ruinous castle walls and disappearing into the wild beyond, but the first crow remained, a slight distance away. Tapping those feet. Steve had been studying it for a minute or so, reminding him of capturing the dark wings on paper many years ago, but was roused when the boy shifted, arms trembling with exertion as he tried to relieve the pressure on his bony wrists.

Steve moved closer, near enough now to hear the rattling breaths misting the air, and was struck again by how thin he was. Regrettably, his appearance wasn’t unusual. What with the failed harvest and the greed of the south, half the kingdom was starving. Steve toed at the pebble he’d kicked earlier, the chill in the air urging him to have the boy questioned and get this over with, but then the prisoner shifted again, raising his head this time, and Steve knew he was different.

Of those wretched souls who ended up on the post, murderers or traitors, most were in denial; weak protests falling on the deaf ears of the guards. Others were violent, kicking out whenever a citizen strayed too close. But when this prisoner met Steve’s gaze, there was no pleading, no desperation in those eyes, but calculation.

His irises were a light shade of blue, standing out against the dark hair that fell long and straggly around his face, and Steve knew he didn’t have a pigment to match. He didn’t even look scared, hanging there, exposed and bleeding. It unnerving, and Steve struggled to peel his eyes from the prisoner as footsteps sounded across the courtyard.

The guard who approached from the keep was clad in a tattered navy scouting uniform, his empty quiver hanging from his shoulder. He saluted, though Steve could see the fatigue in the gesture, snapping his arms back to his sides.

“Capt’n” he greeted, voice a little hoarse and croaky. There was a smudge of blood on his forehead, slightly distorted by the lines there.

“Report” said Steve. “What happened here?”.

“He was found in yer chambers, sire. Stealing papers, n’ gold”.

Stealing papers. It was true then, thought Steve, dread coiling in his gut. A spy from the south, sent to gather information about the Resistance.

“We think ‘e came in through the window. It were wide open, though Mister Lang swears he shut it, and the guards on the door didn’t see nothing”. Steve frowned. The solitary window in his chambers stood almost thirty feet above the ground, a sheer drop to the courtyard below. While the mason work at the Ruins was poor, there were no handy ledges an intruder could utilise to break in. It didn’t seem possible without the aid of a grappling hook, which hadn’t been found on the scene.

“Has he confessed?” Steve demanded. “Said where he was fleeing to?”.

“No, sire” said the guard. “Rollins will soon have him talkin’ I’m sure. But m’ afraid it didn’t end there. We made to arrest the boy, but he…outwitted us” he continued, a little nervously now. “Made it to the stables”.

“And?” said Steve, when the guard paused. “How did you capture him?”.

“After a struggle, he managed to steal a horse. Made it a good few miles before Capt’n Barton got ‘im”. Steve looked at the prisoner again, the arrow embedded in his thigh testament to Clint’s success.

“Anyone injured?”.

“Yes, sire. There’re three guards in the infirmary, and-”.

“Three?” said Steve, in disbelief. “You’re telling me _this_ prisoner”, he pointed, “who’s half your size _and_ had an arrow in his leg managed to take down three men?”.

“He didn’t ‘ave the arrow at the time, sire” said the guard in defence, before wincing. Steve waved away the transgression. There were far more urgent things to concern himself with. “It’s Wells, sire, he’s dead”.

“Dead?” echoed Steve. The guard nodded, expression pinched.

“They fought in the stables, Wells was on top of him, trying t’ restrain him like, and the next thing I knew he ‘ad a knife in his gut”. Steve touched his forehead and shoulders in the sign of the cross, a quick prayer for the fallen, before taking another look at the prisoner. A frayed section of rope hung around his hips, knotted holds suggesting a dagger or two once hung there.

Wells had been a bully, with large meaty fingers that always exerted more force than necessary, and if Steve was honest with himself, he was more concerned with the implications behind his death.

A southern spy was able to infiltrate his chambers, steal his documents, and kill his guards. Steve shuddered, a chill running through his bones that had nothing to do with the cold.

“God” he muttered, shaking his head. He’d up the training schedule in the morning. No one could know about this. Though, he supposed, if the boy really was a spy, Pierce already did.

More footsteps sounded, echoing slightly in the quiet courtyard, and Steve turned to see Barton, flanked by three of his men. The guards took up positions surrounding the prisoner, uneasy expressions on their faces as their fingers tightened around their pole arms. One had a set of scratches on their cheek, nail marks that had torn into the skin, red and angry.

On the ramparts above, a unit of soldiers jogged along the wall, disappearing into the crumbling watch tower.

“Clint” said Steve, touching his Captain of the Guard on the shoulder to ensure he was reading his lips. “How bad is this?”. Clint grimaced.

“It doesn’t look good, Cap. Fury’s reading through the papers he stole, to see what he knows. A guard’s going to run them down in a minute”.

“I’ll go up” said Steve, making for the entrance to the keep before he was stopped by a hand on his arm.

“Sire, Fury has requested you remain with the prisoner” said Clint.

“Remain with him? Whatever for?”. The boy was shackled to a post with three armed guards surrounding him, he was hardly likely to wander off.

“He’s dangerous”. At Steve’s confusion, Clint elaborated. “The way he fought” he said. “He’s been trained. Well. I’m loathe to admit it as he did quite the number on my men, but he’s an extraordinary soldier”.

“How so?” Steve asked.

“He had these knives” explained Clint. “Low quality, flimsy really up close, but by God the damage he could do with them. You could barely see him he moved so fast”. Steve tilted his head, trying to process the information.

“He’s half dead” he said flatly, gesturing towards the prisoner, sagging on the post. “I don’t understand how this happened. I want to speak with the guards on the door”. The boy couldn’t possibly have come in through the window, which meant _someone_ wasn’t telling the truth. Steve knew some of the guards would likely prefer to cover their asses by concocting another story, but he needed honesty. Somehow, this man had gained access to his chambers, having free reign to read his papers and steal God knows what. He would not have it. Their lives depended on their ability to protect themselves from Pierce. The entire Resistance did.

Another guard emerged from the keep, and hurried across the courtyard towards them, something clutched in her hands. She was panting slightly, cheeks flushed red, and as she came closer Steve recognised the object was his satchel. 

Brown and nondescript, it was the bag he used around the Ruins most days, took to council meetings, carried supplies in.

“This is everything he tried to take, sire” said the guard. She handed Steve his satchel, and he quickly flipped it open, staring down at the contents within. There was a purse of gold, no, _two_ , the second one of his own that he kept in his cupboard. Something crumbled under his nails as he delved deeper, and Steve grimaced slightly, further inspection revealing it to be a crushed slice of bread. He removed the purses, now spotting cheese and a leg of meat beneath them. 

Was this…Fury’s supper? The councilman often worked in Steve’s chambers for some peace and quiet, as they no longer had the luxury of a library, and the council rooms doubled as the dining quarters. He wouldn’t be disturbed there if Steve was out training with the soldiers.

This theft made more sense, considering the prisoner’s obvious hunger, but Steve was most concerned with the documents sitting beneath the crushed food.

Having found what he was looking for, Steve pulled, handing the satchel back to the guard as he leafed through the papers. There were details of their units: the names of the soldiers and details of where they’d be positioned and when, the new training schedules, potential plans for disrupting Pierce’s trade routes, even a correspondence from Wakanda.

“ _Sard_ ” Steve cursed, hands crumpling the edges of the parchment. If the boy had succeeded, if Pierce had got hold of these documents, they’d all be dead.

“Double the watch on the walls, and tell Romanov I want riders sent to the outlying villages. I also need an urgent letter sent to Lady Margaret, if councilman Fury hasn’t already done so”.

“It is already dispatched, sire” said Clint, and Steve nodded his acceptance. They needed clarity on this situation, and fast. Lady Margaret, Peggy, was stationed in the south, sending reports on the usurper’s activity and movements whenever she was able. Steve often dreaded a sudden absence of letters, a proclamation that a northern spy had been caught, but Peggy was damn good at her job, and avoided detection for five years now.

The light was waning, and Steve rubbed his hands together, trying to return some life to them as he considered his options. He should be at the chapel now, preparing for his evening prayers. Instead, he was freezing his ass off and had a potential invasion on his hands. So much for a day of rest.

Ordinarily, he might have called for the guards to take the prisoner down, and move him to the dungeons below their feet for questioning in the morning, but he was too restless to wait. If Pierce had managed to send someone into the very heart of the Resistance, what else had he accomplished, secretly? Steve had been a dead man walking for five long years, but it seemed his time was finally running out. The Resistance wasn’t ready to face the royal army. He needed to act _now_.

Making up his mind, Steve strode over to the post. He was no longer a crown prince waiting for things to be handed to him. In the Ruins, you had to get your hands dirty, and do things for yourself. Steve didn’t think he’d survive if he didn’t. His mind couldn’t take it. Though, thankfully he had never been as entitled as _some_ nobles he’d met during his royal life, who were waited on hand and foot without ever lifting a finger to help.

Steve assessed the prisoner. The boy was rocking slightly, side to side, perhaps in an effort to retain some heat. Someone had cut the shirt from his body, and he shook like a leaf ready to fall from its tree. His hands, yanked up behind him, were making an odd twitching motion, as if he was striking flints, but Steve put it down to the cold. He reached out, taking a handful of the prisoner’s tangled hair and wrenching it upwards.

“Left or right?” he asked, voice low and hard. The boy tilted his head as much as he was able, assessing Steve, seemingly unbothered by the tight grip he was held in. Up close, and with his dark hair pulled free of his face, Steve could see a thin cut across his cheekbone, along with a purpling bruise forming fast on his jaw. He looked young, scarcely more than twenty summers, but his eyes carried a depth that few wise men possessed.

“Make a choice, or Rollins will choose for you. He might even take both. You won’t need your hands on the gallows”.

It was a cruel truth, but a truth all the same. That’s what happened to thieves in the Ruins, and the boy’s other crimes didn’t spare him from losing a hand. While Steve had killed more men than he could count, his stomach still turned at the butchering of unarmed men for petty offences. This was no mere thievery, however. Steve dreaded to think of the massacre that would follow if those documents had left the castle walls.

The prisoner’s lips parted, dry and chapped, but nothing came out. He just watched.

“Speak” Steve demanded, shaking the fist that was gripping the prisoner’s hair. “Or has someone cut out your tongue?”. The boy sighed, sounding almost bored as he spoke.

“Not yet”. His voice was quiet, and slightly croaky, and it was then that Steve noticed the finger marks, bruising dark and constrictive around his neck. The marks that had sealed Wells’ fate.

Steve scrubbed a hand through his beard. He needed more time. Time to determine who this man was, what he could do. What his orders were. Steve would know who the prisoner answered to before he died on the post.

“I’ll take him to the dungeons myself” said Steve, to the guard beside him, holding out his hand for the keys to the post.

“Yes, sire” he said, dropping the clinking loop onto Steve’s palm before departing.

Fitting the key into the lock, Steve released the chain with a fluid motion, catching the boy as he crumpled to the ground. He hoisted him into his arms easily, weighing even less than Steve thought he might, and he wondered yet again _how_ this boy managed to injure anyone, let alone trained guards.

The prisoner let out a yelp as he was lifted, and Steve saw surprise flit across his face before he settled on anger.

“Put me down” he hissed, twisting in Steve’s grip as he began to walk. Arms still shackled behind him, the boy was trapped, unable to push away from Steve.

“You’re able to walk are you?”.

“ _Down_ ”.

“You’re not in a position to be making demands here. There’s also an arrow sticking out of your leg, in case you hadn’t noticed”.

“I had” said the boy, before reaching up, and jabbing his finger directly into Steve’s eye. Cursing, Steve dropped the prisoner like a stone, clutching his face as the boy deftly rolled into a crouch a few feet away.

The guards following behind them cried out in shock, rushing forward and surrounding the boy, pole arms raised, the sharp blades bearing down towards him.

“Hold” Steve ordered, raising his hand as dark shapes popped behind his eyelids. “Stop”.

“But sire!”.

“I said hold” Steve warned, turning away as he blinked, his vision blurry and swimming for a further moment before it focused again. How had the prisoner escaped the cuffs? His arms were chained securely behind him; Steve was sure of it. He turned back to the group, schooling his face into a neutral expression. What he saw turned it to shock.

Clint was holding the manacles, the iron link completely snapped at one end, allowing them to fall open. By God’s bones, he’d broken them clean away.

The boy shuddered, bracing himself against the stone as the pikes pressed in around him. He looked faint, and had clearly exhausted himself with his little display. Even so, Steve couldn’t help but admire his resilience.

Not so long ago, he’d been a scrap of a thing getting repeatedly knocked on his ass during sparring. A hell of a lot had happened since then, but Steve saw the same drive in this boy to get back up, even if he was on the wrong side.

He scanned the ground for a pick, anything he could’ve used to break free, but it was impossible to spot against the dappled stone and the small rocks that crumbled from the castle walls each day.

“Step back” he said to the guards, and they retreated, though their pole arms remained trained on the boy. Steve moved closer, preparing to take the boy into his arms again and haul him down to the dungeons, when something caught his eye. A white dust, coating his bare feet.

Crouching, he swiped a finger across the sole of the boy’s foot, ignoring the pained hiss as he jerked away. Steve rubbed it between his fingers, deep in thought, before his gaze travelled up the walls of the Ruins, chalky and white. While he’d thought it impossible before, he’d now bet all the slithers of gold in his coffers that the prisoner had scaled the wall. _How_?

This boy…he was trained. Given his size, and malnutrition, Steve was beginning to understand Clint’s assessment of his abilities. He’d already proven himself able to pick locks, and best his guards in combat. Pierce must’ve bored of toying with Steve, taking more active steps to wipe the Resistance out. The skill set fitted, and he clearly had training, though the question arose as to why Pierce would keep him so ill fed. Perhaps his plan was a long one, drawn out, and over the course of the journey up north the boy had starved. Something didn’t feel right about that theory, though. A spy would have been provided with coin, Steve was sure.

He couldn’t help but wonder what the boy might be capable of at full strength. What a fine addition to the Resistance he might make, if he could be persuaded.

A gust of wind whistled through the courtyard, and Steve was roused from his idealistic thoughts, wiping his fingers on his dark breeches. Most had chosen their sides after the Fall, five years ago, and fighting for Steve and the Resistance meant for a long and painful execution if you were caught. It wasn’t a wonder that the majority had chosen the easier option. Kept a low profile, tried to get by with what little they had under Pierce’s rule.

Steve bent down, scooping up the boy in the same manner, one arm under his knees and another supporting his back, the arrow sticking out on the opposite side. His back was raised in places, the skin too rough to be anything but the scars left by a whip. Steve looked at the boy’s hands, dirty and loose, and resting on his stomach.

“Touch me again and I’ll cut off your fingers myself” he said, perfectly calm. He wouldn’t – he didn’t have the stomach for torture, but the prisoner didn’t know that. The boy stared at him for a second, before his eyes dropped, and Steve relished the small victory. It wasn’t much, but it was the first sign of acquiescence Steve had got from the prisoner, and he’d take what he could get.

The air warmed, though not by much, as they entered the keep, and the prisoner shifted in his arms. The fatigue of hanging from the post, and exerting himself while injured seemed to have caught up with him, and he had sagged a little in Steve’s grip, too exhausted to flinch away.

“I thought you were going to hang me” the boy slurred, head rolling back onto Steve’s shoulder.

“Don’t sound so disappointed, sweetheart”. Clint snorted from somewhere beside him, and Steve huffed at his choice of words. Clearly he’d been spending too much time with Tony. The natural philosopher, or the ‘sorcerer’, as he was sometimes referred to by those who didn’t have a favourable impression of him, was as quick with his tongue as he was clever.

They headed down the narrow passageways inside the castle, cobwebs and shoots of ivy poking through the cracks in the masonry. A serving girl appeared, looking warily at the prisoner as she handed Clint a flaming torch to light their way, and Steve felt her gaze linger upon them long after they’d passed. The darkness grew as they descended the claustrophobic staircase to the dungeons, a musty smell filling their nostrils.

Somewhere along the way, the boy’s eyes had half drifted closed, leaving only the whites visible, his clenched fists loosening as he lay limp in Steve’s arms.

The dungeon guard, half leaning against the wall in exhaustion jumped to attention with an air of panic at being caught resting on the job. She bowed hastily, and Steve felt the familiar sinking sensation in his stomach. He wasn’t a prince anymore, there was no reason to bow.

The dungeons were damp and dingy, illuminated only by a few torches hung at intervals along the wall, and a small iron brazier at the entrance. A spider scuttled across the floor as they moved down the corridor, disappearing between the bars of a cell with repetitive jolting steps.

Steve followed the guard down the pathway, where she unlocked an empty cell, keys jangling in the quiet space. The cell was barren, filled only with a meagre scattering of straw serving as a makeshift bed, and a bucket in the corner. Steve lay the prisoner on the straw, crouching beside him as he positioned his leg carefully, lest the arrow be forced further in or snap. He couldn’t die before he was questioned.

The guard attached a manacle to the boy’s other ankle, securing him to the floor, though Steve wondered if that too would be broken by the morning. He should send for some more, just in case, although forking out any more coin than was necessary to give to that jumped up excuse of a blacksmith wasn’t something Steve wanted to do in a hurry, dangerous criminal or not.

On that line of thinking, he examined the cell door, testing its strength. Although they were old, the iron bars remained strong against his efforts to spread them, and Steve nodded, moving onto the lock. That was a bit trickier, as he wasn’t entirely sure _how_ the boy had escaped the shackles in the first place, and if he had a similar affinity with locked doors. But after a few tugs, he reassured himself that the creaking gate was sturdy enough to put up a fight, which _should_ alert the guards. He’d have additional soldiers posted at the entrance to the dungeons, though. There could be any chance of escape, not with this much at stake. 

With that in mind, he returned to the boy, his eyes half-lidded and fingers shaking weakly against the cold as Steve turned out the pockets in his breeches for any picks or weapons. He of course found none, though it was of less comfort to him than he’d hoped, the possibility that the boy was luring them into a false sense of security with his weariness coming to mind. 

Something else caught his eye, and Steve’s gaze returned to the boy’s hands. Thin, scarred lines crossed across over the backs, healed cuts, with deeper wounds at each of his knuckles. They too, were healed over, but red circles remained.

Something about the marks unsettled Steve. They were precise, and seemed to be measured and deliberate. Not scratches you picked up from a brawl on the street. There was a creaking sound, and the cell door opened, Clint slipping inside. Steve turned to face him, making sure he could see his lips.

“How did he get these marks?” Steve asked on a whim, gesturing to the boy’s knuckles. The archer shrugged, shaking his head.

“They were already there, sire”.

Steve sighed, trying to clear his thoughts. He needed to act, fast. What if by sending this spy, it showed Pierce was ready to invade? Finish what he started five years ago? He needed answers, and he wasn’t going to find them in the lines on this man’s skin.

“Triple the dungeon guard” Steve ordered. “I want someone with eyes on him at all times. And fetch Bruce, immediately”.

“Yes, Captain” said Clint, nodding to him before rapping his knuckles against the bars. The guard opened the door, which scraped across the ground with a high pitched screeching noise, and Clint exited. She held the gate open for Steve, but he motioned it closed again, wanting another moment there before the chaos he’d return to on the upper floors of the keep.

Goosebumps were still high on the prisoner’s skin, and Steve deliberated for a second, before pulling off his own coat, lest chill take the boy in the night. It was a dull brown, and worn down on the elbows, but it would take the bite out of the chill. Steve was careful to check his own pockets for anything sharp, though the dull throbbing in his left eye reminded him that the boy didn’t need a weapon to be dangerous.

He stirred as the coat was draped over him, and Steve backed away, tapping on the bars to be let out. 

“I’ve sent for a physician” he said, stepping outside and gesturing for the guard to lock the cell. The boy pushed himself up on his scraped elbows, Steve’s coat pooling in his lap as he glared at him through the bars.

“I don’t need your physicians”.

“That’s another thing that isn’t up to you” said Steve, as the key clicked in the lock.


	2. Cease

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I hope the rest of your words will be more truthful” said Steve, taking his torch back from the guard and starting down the corridor. He heard a low chuckle, sending irritation running up his spine.
> 
> “I wouldn’t count on it”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! :)
> 
> Thank you SO much for the amazing feedback on chapter one, both here and on Tumblr!! Your comments absolutely make my day <3 and sending big virtual hugs to those who kindly messaged me/sent an ask reassuring me about upload speeds, I appreciate it a lot <3
> 
> As for the wait - if you follow me on Tumblr, you may know that university has been steadily sapping all the life and energy from me as the term goes on, so I’m stuck in a bit of a cycle of really wanting to write, but being too overloaded with work to get much of a chance. I’m finding this quite stressful, because I don’t want to keep people waiting too long between chapters, but sadly I don’t think there’s much I can do about this at the moment :(   
> Thank you for sticking with me!!
> 
> So here's chapter two! It’s a bit longer, so I hope it somewhat makes up for the wait :)
> 
> Also, I’m going to start posting warnings in the end notes. There’s some minor ones for this chapter, just a heads up!

When Steve returned to the cells, the healer in tow, the boy was unconscious again. As he’d suspected, the keep had been frantic. Guards rushing along the corridors, councillors shouting over one another in their panic, along with a few noticeably absent members and horses missing from the stables. The little village wrapping around the Ruins was in a similar state. Civilians had been alerted to the danger, and had been pouring into the lower floors of the keep for protection, the small castle quickly growing cramped and stuffy.

As chief councillor, Fury had been as calm in a crisis as ever, although Steve could see in the tightness around his eyes that showed he too feared that this could be the end of the Resistance. Formed just after the Fall by the survivors of Pierce’s usurpation, the Resistance had developed over the years, and had been recruiting soldiers from among Pierce’s discontented subjects in the hope that one day, they’d be strong enough to invade. Knock him off the throne he stole.

Steve held his torch aloft as the guard unlocked the cell, surveying the prisoner. Through the bars, his face appeared softened in sleep, underneath the grime and bruising. Steve supposed he may have even been comely, if he was cleaned up, and not trying to bring about his execution. It was a strange thought process, he realised, but he couldn’t help his fascination with the boy. He’d caused unprecedented terror in the Ruins, but lying there on the straw, small and still, it hardly seemed possible.

Steve hadn’t witnessed his fighting, other than the jab to the eye of course, but the way Clint had described it made him wish he had. If only to put a sword through his gut himself.

Fury would chastise him if he knew where his thoughts were heading, though Steve couldn’t help but wonder if the prisoner was capable of that much half-dead, what could he do if he was well?

The boy didn’t stir as they entered, and now he was closer, Steve could see the sweat on his brow, the slight frown on his forehead as he twitched in sleep. There was so much potential in that body, showing the beginnings of fever.

Bruce set his bag on the floor, unwinding the string securing the battered satchel together. The physician, like Steve, had escaped from the south five years ago. His wife hadn’t.

He’d been treating Steve since he was a boy with skins on his knees, as a young apprentice to the physician back in Lynbrook, and Steve trusted his work. He’d seen men come back from death itself thanks to Bruce’s healing touch, and Steve knew he was the best hope this prisoner had.

The dungeons were dim, the cell only vaguely lit by the brazier flicking embers up several yards down the corridor. Bruce took out a candle, passing it through the bars to the guard, who touched it to the burner, setting the wick alight before carefully returning it. The physician wedged in into a little candlestick he’d brought, shedding a little more flickering light on the prisoner’s leg.

Withdrawing a knife, Bruce carefully sliced at the material of the boy’s breeches, removing a section and leaving a large square around the site of the injury.

Steve grimaced as the wound was illuminated, the boy’s red, angry skin surrounding the shaft of the arrow. Bruce leant closer, adjusting his spectacles on his nose as he peered at it.

After a moment he withdrew a bottle from his medical bag, uncorking it and sniffing the contents. Steve caught a faint whiff of alcohol. With a slightly wary glance at the prisoner, Bruce upended the little bottle, the pale liquid pouring out over the wound. The boy twitched, shallow breathing more apparent in the baited silence, but soon calmed.

Bruce opened his bag again, Steve catching a glimpse of the instruments within. Cloth bandages, vials filled with pastes and sloshing liquid, scalpels and knives glinting in the doom. Selecting a pair of iron tongs, rounded at the base, Bruce brought them to the wound, clasping the arrow shaft just above the place it met the skin. He pulled, firmly but with care, and soon the wood came loose with a slight squelch, blood leaking from the hole in the boy’s leg. Steve swallowed his revulsion, glancing at the prisoner, who was shaking slightly, but remained in the fitful throes of his unconsciousness. A blessing, really.

“It’s as I thought” said Bruce, placing the shaft onto the dungeon floor. “The arrowhead has snapped off, inside the thigh”. Steve grimaced, peering at the bloody end of the shaft, which indeed had no metal head attached to it. “If it were in his calf, it would be simpler” said Bruce. “I could push it through to the other side. But there’s a chance it could be lodged in the bone here, and he’s already showing signs of fever. I need to extract it from this wound” he explained. Searching in his bag, the physician produced a number of small vials and two wooden sticks, carved down into neat points.

Steve watched with morbid fascination, as he wrapped the ends of the wood using a clean roll of linen, before uncorking one of the vials.

“Would you hold this?” he asked, and Steve moved closer, taking hold of the sticks, and with them the role of apprentice, as Bruce drizzled the sticky contents of the vial over the linen.

“Is that honey?” Steve asked.

“Yes, infused with rose” said Bruce, taking the sticks back and rolling them together until the honey was evenly coated. He held them against the boy’s thigh, comparing their size to that of the arrow wound. Deeming them satisfactory, Bruce glanced up to check that the prisoner was still unconscious, before bringing the probes to the wound.

“What are you doing?” Steve asked, voice hushed. With his limited medical knowledge, it seemed rather counter-productive to make a wound bigger, but he trusted Bruce. He wouldn’t let the prisoner die.

“I have to widen the wound” Bruce explained. “When it’s large enough, I can use the tongs, and reach in for the arrowhead”.

The linen was pushed inside slowly, the white cloth soon darkening to red. After a tense minute, Bruce brought the second probe to the wound, carefully pushing it in alongside the first. Steve remained knelt beside them, holding the candlestick close to light his work. In the flickering light, he could make out further scars and deep, curving marks on the small section of exposed skin, disappearing under the prisoner’s breeches. Steve leant a little closer to examine them, so absorbed in Bruce’s work and the strange lines that he didn’t notice the prisoner’s eyes blink open.

The boy’s leg suddenly stiffened, retracting as he let out a choked scream. Bruce dropped his instruments in surprise, one stick still buried within the wound, and recoiling as the boy lashed out, catching him with a kick to the side of the head.

Steve was on his feet in an instant, sidestepping Bruce and positioning himself in front of him, blocking him from further injury. A blow struck him hard on his jaw, and Steve blinked as he raised his hands in defence, the pain disorientating him for a moment as other kicks came towards him, catching him in the arms and chest.

“Enough, enough! Stop” he tried, attempting to catch the chain securing the prisoner to the floor in an effort to stop his kicking. Fatigue catching up with him, the boy was panting, hard, and scrambled backwards away from Steve until he was halted by the shackle, still secured around his ankle.

The prisoner’s eyes were wide, and he pulled franticly at the iron chaining him to the floor, further exacerbating the injury. A trail of blood stemmed from his leg, and he was shaking with exertion. Steve changed tactics, lowering his voice and trying to remain calm even as his jaw throbbed.

“Hey, hey, stop now” he said, voice quieter as he moved back a little, hands still raised in placating defence. It wasn’t soothing exactly, with the rate his heart was hammering at, but it was the best he could manage. The bitter tang of blood burst on his tongue. 

Bruce had already retreated to a safe distance across the cell, and the boy’s flailing began to subside, the pain in his leg registering as the shock of his awakening died down. He let out a cry, low and haunting, like a wounded animal caught in a net, looking close to tears as his leg sagged limp to the floor.

It should have felt like a victory, to have a southern spy hurt and whimpering in his dungeons, but it did not. Steve felt a revulsion, a shame, at having such a fighter cornered, wearing down on his spirit. He sighed. They _needed_ to treat the prisoner so he could be questioned.

“Okay, don’t move it” he said carefully, as the boy took a gasping breath, fingers shaking as they reached out to the wound.

“We _need_ to remove the arrowhead” Bruce explained, still cradling the side of his head. “It’ll rot his leg otherwise”. The prisoner winced, his nose wrinkling as he glared at the blood wetting his breeches.

“Are you going to let us help you?” Steve asked, nodding to his leg. The boy looked up, anger, and something like suspicion clouding his face.

“What do you care?” he said, tone accusatory. “I’ll sooner die like this than on a rack”. Steve sighed, but considered the statement. Willing to die before he was questioned. Though he’d only known him a few moments, that didn’t sit right with Steve. This boy was a fighter; he was sure of it. He wouldn’t have escaped his chains or fought tooth and nail if he would soon go like a lamb to the slaughter; a quiet death in a secluded cell. Meaning the prisoner had secrets he would take to his grave.

Loyal. An admirable quality in most, but in Pierce’s spy?

From a Captain’s perspective alone, it would be a waste to send the prisoner to his death. Based on Clint’s testimony and the scars on the eyewitnesses, not to mention Wells’ death, if the prisoner was healed and rested, he’d make a fine soldier for the Resistance. If he could be persuaded. But, as it was, the boy fought for the south, and was willing to die for the cause. The good of the Resistance had to come first, and Steve would do what he must to get the boy talking.

There was a clinking sound from behind him, and Steve turned to see Bruce reorganising his medical bag, collecting vials that had rolled away during the scuffle and slotting them back into their places. Steve narrowed his eyes.

The physician was usually calm, a voice of reason amongst the chaos they often found themselves in at the Ruins, but sometimes, when things got too much, he snapped. Not like a twig, quiet underfoot, but with the force of a great oak, felled in a storm. Smashing walls, shouting, lunging at anyone who strayed too close in an attempt to help. Anyone except Natasha. He’d been a mighty force on the battlefield, that was certain, though Bruce preferred not to fight these days, choosing instead to tend to the wounded.

Usually it was stress that sent him into that dark place, other times pain, which was why Steve was watching him now, one hand still rubbing his temple, glasses slightly askew where they were perched on his nose.

Now that his equipment was in order, Bruce pulled out a short stick, worn with grooves. He handed it to Steve, and recognising the dents as teeth marks, he gingerly brought the stick to the boy’s mouth. The prisoner glared, a flicker of indecision in those eyes, but opened, and Steve pushed the stick between his teeth.

“It’s best not to watch, lad” said Bruce, uncorking a vial of alcohol. “You should lie back”. To Steve’s surprise, the boy obeyed again, settling himself amongst the straw, fists clenching and unclenching in what Steve saw was fear. He knew the boy was from the south, and would likely stick a knife in his gut at the first opportunity, but Steve still felt strangely sorry for him as he lay mute on the dungeon floor, preparing for the pain.

“Can you hold him still?” Bruce requested of Steve, hands hovering near the protruding stick in the prisoner’s leg.

The boy tensed, breathing quickening slightly as Steve knelt beside him. His eyes narrowed, brow furrowed in indignation as Steve grasped his thigh, careful not to touch the wound, and pressed it to the floor. A second passed, and any retort that the prisoner could have given was replaced by a choked gasp, as Bruce took hold of the probe still hanging from the wound.

The extraction was long and painful. Bruce had one knee on the prisoner’s calf, pinning him down as best as he could, tongs buried inside the boy’s thigh, grasping, twisting, to the sound of screams. Steve was struck by the prisoner’s flailing arms more than once, and was forced to grab them when they moved instinctively to his thigh, pushing, clawing, _anything_ to make the pain stop.

Restrained, the boy cried and jerked, calling out in what sounded like a foreign language, though it was hard to distinguish lucid words. Steve grimaced throughout, bile rising in his throat, hating his role in pinning him down. It felt like torture, though he knew it was for the boy’s benefit. The arrow would surely take him, if left within.

Clenching his teeth, face screwed up in concentration, Bruce manoeuvred the tongs, his expression suddenly clear as he got a better grip on the arrowhead, slippery with blood. The boy jerked again, weaker this time, something like a plea slipping from his lips, garbled from the stick in his mouth.

Bruce retracted his hand, withdrawing the tongs to reveal the arrowhead, clasped firmly within the metal pincers. He held it to the candle for a moment, the red droplets glistening, before he let it fall to the dungeon floor with a tinny thunk.

The boy sagged against the hay, no longer fighting Steve’s hold. He thought he might be unconscious again, but after a moment he blinked, his shallow breathing resuming. 

Steve’s gaze snagged on the minute details of his face, the bitten redness of his lips around the stick, the flecks of dirt on his skin, so much so that he jumped slightly as Bruce uncorked a vial with a low pop.

He soaked the wound with wine again, and the boy came alive like a puppet on a string, shuddering as the liquid entered the wound. The physician cleaned it out with another probe, covered in fresh linen dipped in honey, and finished the process by binding a cloth around his thigh, over the bedraggled mess of his breeches, protecting the wound from the elements if nothing else.

“I’ll need to repeat this every day, until it’s healed” said Bruce, though there was a hesitancy in his voice which suggested he knew the prisoner would die before his wounds healed over. “Changing the linen, and soaking it with wine, that is. The worst is over with”.

“Thank you, Bruce” said Steve, watching the healer pack away his supplies. The boy regarded him warily, eyes lidded, until the probes and wine were fastened inside the satchel once more. Bruce nodded, knocking on the bars of the cell as he chanced another uneasy look at the prisoner, adjusting his bag under his arm.

Steve rose, following the healer out as the guard unlocked the gate. Though the air was still foul and stuffy, it felt relieving to put some distance between himself and the prisoner. He needed to _think_ , to reassess the situation in the keep. The boy remained prostrate on the hay, though Steve didn’t miss the way his eyes followed the gate, the mechanism of the lock as it clicked shut. Steve regarded him for a moment through the bars, reassuring himself with a glance at his ankle chain, before curiosity won out.

“What’s your name?” he asked. The prisoner gave him a flat look, but Steve didn’t continue, nor walk away, letting the question hang in the air, like a noose on the scaffold. Eventually, the boy breathed hard out of his nose, letting his head drop back to stare up at the blackened ceiling before answering.

“James” he said, not bothering to look back. His voice was clearer than it had been yesterday, though there was something about his tone…

“Is that just the first name you thought of?” Steve hedged. The corner of the prisoner’s mouth twitched up.

“Something like that”.

“I hope the rest of your words will be more truthful” said Steve, taking his torch back from the guard and starting down the corridor. He heard a low chuckle, sending irritation running up his spine.

“I wouldn’t count on it”.

Steve reappeared above ground into the torch lit corridor of the lower keep, a shadow immediately joining his as he set off, pace brisk.

“Natasha” he greeted. Captain Romanov turned to look at him, her red braid flicking to the side. She wore the dark blue cloth of the Resistance, a battered chest piece buckled on top, with her helmet tucked into the crook of her arm. 

“Well?” she said in return, armour clinking together as she strode along beside him. “Is he working for Pierce?”. Steve sighed.

“He hasn’t admitted to anything” he started, lowering his voice as a servant passed them, arms laden with kindling. “But there’s something about him…he knows more than he’s letting on. It doesn’t add up. He’s half-starved, but highly trained. Picked the lock on his shackles”.

“I heard he scaled the wall to your chambers”.

“You heard right” said Steve. Natasha furrowed her brow in thought. 

“You don’t just wake up with those kinds of abilities” she said. “Someone’s been preparing him for that mission. This is Pierce, it has to be. With those documents, he could pinpoint our units exact positions”.

“Why now?” Steve wondered aloud. “The situation hasn’t changed. He could’ve finished this a long time ago”. Finished _him_. Natasha stopped him as they reached the exit of the keep, a hand on his arm.

“We’re stronger than you realise, Steve”. Shoulders slumping, he dropped his gaze, scanning over the shoots of ivy poking through the cobbled wall.

Some days, when the grief was bad, and the corridors felt empty of the laughter and chatter he still missed, he felt so vulnerable in his crumbling excuse of a castle he thought it a wonder he hadn’t been picked off yet. Pierce had him cornered, locked in a lethal game of cat and mouse. Those days, the ones where Steve hardly felt the need to leave his chambers, came and went, often all strung together, like an old beaded necklace abandoned at the back of a wardrobe.

He put on the front of the strong Captain his people needed, but he couldn’t keep it up indefinitely. Cracks were starting to show, and sometimes he just needed time alone to wallow in the loss they all felt so keenly. Some had moved on, made new lives for themselves as best they could under Pierce’s regime. But not him. Never him.

“We could become a real threat to him soon, and he knows it” said Natasha, firmly. “With every soldier you convert to our cause, the closer we come to bringing him down”.

“But the prisoner broke through our defences so easily” Steve said, struggling to keep the defeatism from his voice. “We came _this_ close to the entire Resistance falling” he said, holding up his thumb and index finger, a slither of space between them. Natasha’s eyes flicked to his fingers, then back again.

“Even so, I don’t think God himself would be able to crush the ideas behind it”. Steve sighed through his nose, giving her an appreciative smile. Natasha shifted, hand resting easily on the hilt of her sword, sheathed in a scabbard on her belt, a swirling pattern engraved into the wood.

“I’m headed for the outlying villages, with the night watch” she said. “I’ll send a messenger if there’s news”.

“I should be riding out with you” said Steve regretfully, biting the inside of his cheek in frustration. He hated that aspect of his role. Both in his old life, and his current one, he was the sole heir. The only man left alive at the Ruins with Plantagenet blood in his veins. In his youth, he’d been cloistered by his father, forced to stay behind on scouting missions, his opponents given a wooden sword to spar with him though they had long moved on to steel. He’d broken the rules of course, as often as he could, and though his whipping boy bore the brunt of it, the faint scars remained on his palms to the day.

Now that he was older, Steve had more control, could listen to his heart and throw himself into the fray with his men, to hell with the scolding he’d receive from the council afterwards for putting himself at risk.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knew that _if_ he died, the Resistance would have no monarch to put on the throne even if they ever managed to unseat Pierce, but that didn’t make it any easier to stay behind while his units rode out. He knew he had duties to perform here, had to question the prisoner beneath their feet in a matter of hours, but if Pierce really was invading, his units in the outlying villages would suffer his army first. And Steve wasn’t prepared to sit back and watch as his soldiers risked their lives. Natasha smiled.

“Fury would string you up before Pierce would get a chance” she answered, and he knew she was right.

“If there are any changes, if anyone is sighted…” he said, trailing off, and Natasha nodded.

“You’ll be there; I know”. He gave her a grim smile, gripping her arm.

“Be careful. Godspeed”.

Tired, though with an impatient speed to his steps, Steve nodded to the guards as he entered the dungeons the following morning. Too anxious to sleep, he’d spent a miserable night on the walls, restlessly pacing as he kept watch alongside Pietro, a young Sokovian recruit with sharp eyes.

Returning to his chambers at first light, the emptiness of the night both relieving and frustrating Steve, he’d washed quickly, the cold water dripping unpleasantly down his chest as he scrubbed at himself with a rough cloth. He wiped it across his neck, the raised white scar that stopped half way across his throat standing out even in the grimy mirror.

Carrying a crude copper plate bearing food for the prisoner, Steve blinked in the dungeons, eyes adjusting to the doom. James, or whatever his _real_ name was, had been given a few hours to sleep off his injuries. It was more than most prisoners got, though they usually weren’t quite so damaged. And now, Steve expected answers.

No news was good news, and no rider had ridden in from the night watch in the outlying villages, meaning an army hadn’t yet been sighted. But until he received a letter from Peggy, or any sort of confession from James, Steve would remain on high alert.

Walking down the corridor, he surveyed the food on the plate. While it wasn’t a meal of kings, it wasn’t _too_ meagre. Better than scraps. He was skin and bones, and Steve needed him alive, if they were to stand a chance. There was maslin bread, a few slices of cheese, along with a stem of shrivelled tomatoes.

Steve’s heart dropped to his stomach as the cell came into view. The gate was ajar, bolt hanging uselessly in the air, the hay scatted around the _empty_ cell.

Whirling around, a nub of cheese flying from the plate, Steve stared aghast at the guards, mind racing. _How_ had he escaped? Where had he gone? Why hadn’t he been alerted?

“Where is the prisoner?” he demanded. The guards looked at one another nervously, though as Steve took a breath to calm himself he noticed they didn’t have an air of panic about them that signified an escape. One guard cleared her throat, dryly swallowing before speaking.

“Rollins had permission to question him, sire”. Steve’s stomach flipped horribly, and he threw the plate aside with a clatter as he turned and ran deeper into the dungeons, the worst scenarios flying through his head. Many had died at Rollins’ hand. His footsteps thudded dully, the sound muffled in the claustrophobic corridor, and while the guards called after him he didn’t pause, turning the corner and all but crashing into the iron gate of Rollins’ torture chamber.

Small, dingy, and with a lingering smell of blood and other unpleasant substances, Steve had always hated the chamber. Though he knew its existence was necessary, he didn’t see it as a first resort. Not like some. Certain members of the council, with Rollins lurking behind them, pressured Steve at every opportunity, arguing they should take a harsher approach each time a suspected traitor arrived in the dungeons.

Preferring to remain underground, Steve had hardly heard Rollins say a word, but he was a master of making others talk. The first thing he’d done in the job was replace the thick, rotting wooden door with iron bars, so everyone in the dungeons could hear the screams. Sick bastard, Steve had thought. There was enough suffering in the world already.

There was a large, hulking shadow in the centre of the room, blocking James from sight, and as Steve wrenched open the gate with a piercing screech as it scraped against the concrete, the figure turned. Rollins was large and thickly built, clad in a dark tunic that strained at the shoulders, the Resistance star all but faded to nothing from where it had been stamped on the sleeve, eons ago. When people still had hope.

Steve’s eyes were immediately drawn to the crude wrench grasped in his fist, a trickle of blood running down his knuckles, illuminated by the brazier in the corner.

Rollins grunted in acknowledgement, though his expression was irritated, and Steve quickly moved further into the gloom, revealing James, shackled to a chair.

His chest rose and fell rapidly, his eyes intent as they locked upon Steve, hair messy and sticking to the sweat on his face. Worn belts secured his wrists to the armrests, his skin pinched where they were pulled too tightly, and there was a further strap secured around his throat, immobilising him. Blood dripped in a steady stream from his fingers, and as Steve moved towards him he noticed the loose fingernails on the table.

Swallowing the bile that rose in his throat, burning at his insides, Steve sidestepped Rollins, unbuckling the belts binding James to the chair. He’d seen men gutted on the battlefield, but the butchering of a defenceless man turned his stomach like nothing else. James’s arms remained limp at his sides even after they’d been released, head lolling, and Steve tried to avoid looking at the dark wetness oozing from his nailbeds, instead assessing the locked shackles binding his ankles to the chair.

“Release him” he ordered, turning to face Rollins again. The torturer’s jaw jutted, and Steve could tell he was grinding his teeth. “ _Now_ ”. Rollins’ grip on the wrench tightened, and for a moment Steve thought he was about to throw it at him, but after a tense second he flung the tool back onto the workbench, a loud crash resonating from the cruel instruments. Steve bit his tongue.

Finding the key on his large looping belt, Rollins unshackled the prisoner, a meaty hand grabbing him by the scruff of the neck and shoving him from the chair. Pale and shaky, James fumbled to catch himself on the workbench, but instead flinched away as his bloody hands touched the surface, landing with a thud on the floor at Steve’s feet. Rollins gave him a kick.

“Hey” said Steve, voice hard as he raised his hand, forcing Rollins to back away. “Enough. Who authorised this?” he demanded, keeping one eye on the prisoner shifting below him. 

“Council” Rollins muttered, crossing his arms.

“Bull _shit_ ” Steve shot back. “They haven’t convened since last night and this morning. Half the councillors were on the night watch. Answer me. I want the truth”. Rollins sucked in a breath through his nose.

“Fury. Said it couldn’t wait”. There it was. If Steve was honest with himself, he’d known the answer already, but he wanted to hear it from Rollins’ lips. Even so, he swallowed his objections. He would meet with Fury later. “Not that I got anything out of him with the interruption”.

Steve reached down instead of rising to the jibe, intending to help James to his feet. The prisoner ignored Steve’s outstretched hand, and after a moment he stood on his own. There was no relief on his face, just indifference. Steve supposed he didn’t have much reassurance that he wasn’t being taken to a worse fate.

“Next time, you ask for my permission” said Steve, fixing Rollins with a hard stare as he stepped closer, less than a yard apart. “He’s just had an arrow in his leg, he could’ve died” he said, making no effort to hide his words from James. He should know the extent of the situation he was in. “How am I supposed to question a dead man, Rollins?”.

The torturer rolled his shoulders, tilting up his chin to emphasise the little height he had on Steve as he stared him down.

A moment passed, the silence tense between them, before the torturer looked away irritably. Steve sighed. It was as much deference as he was going to get. Taking James firmly by the upper arm, he led him towards the gate.

The prisoner tensed as he was touched, but allowed himself to be moved out, away from the pain. Those iron tools, dented with use, and the stifling proximity of the brazier. Steve didn’t miss the resentful look Rollins gave them as the gate screeched closed again, the sound reverberating along the corridor.

Ignoring the nervous glances from the guards, Steve yanked open the cell door. It was a cathartic gesture, a release of some of the stress pent up inside him, until he saw James jerk slightly. Steve slowed, forced himself to breathe, relaxing his movements so as not to startle him again. He’d need to be dealt with more carefully if he was going to help them.

Inside the cell, Steve moved some of the hay into more of a bundle, directing James to sit down upon it. Hands held close to his chest, James shuffled forward into the cell. He stepped on a tomato, and flinched at the sensation, peering down in confusion as the juice spread beneath his bare feet. Steve grimaced.

“Oh, I brought you some food, but-” he was cut off as James dropped to the floor like he’d been sliced at the knees, grabbing the flattened stem of tomatoes and a slice of bread and shoving them into his mouth. Steve stepped back instinctively, almost aghast as he watched.

He _knew_ the bad harvest had affected thousands. He’d been to see the dead fields himself after all, but he rarely saw the impact this close. The recruitment progresses to the villages beyond the small forest that lay beside the Ruins had been halted months ago. With the likelihood of invasion growing with each passing day, the council had deemed it too risky for Steve to be amongst his own people, lest there be an assassin amongst them.

Though he detested being shut away like he was, and had broken the rule on more than one occasion, Steve had to admit that it wasn’t easy to see the gaunt, haggard faces of the villagers, while he rode by in his relative finery. Those traders and guardsmen who had been lucky enough to secure lodgings within the Ruins’ crumbling walls were more fortunate than most. The elements were harsh in the midlands, the rainy season incessant and damaging to the crop fields, often taking poorly constructed housing and stone from the Ruins with it in its assault on the earth.

While Steve and the council shared and procured what they could for the villages, it wasn’t enough. His people, who turned to him for protection as Pierce’s regime rotted through England, were starving before his very eyes. And while it was true he no longer lived as a prince, Steve had never known hunger. Not like his people had. He strived to do all he could to aid them, yet there was a divide between them, ever growing the longer he was cloistered away in the old castle. Perhaps it would never heal. Perhaps it would never get the chance to.

“James” Steve started, trailing off as he knelt beside him. His hands were shaking as he ate, pieces of hay getting caught in the food in his haste to grab it. “There will be more. You will not starve here”.

James ignored him, quickly moving to gather the remaining food strewn about the cell together. He ripped a piece of cloth from his already tattered breeches, and tucked the bread and cheese inside, tying it up neatly even while his fingers bled.

Burying the little parcel under the hay, James looked up at Steve, tomato juice dripping from his chin. Steve looked away, unable to meet his gaze as guilt washed over him.

This was life in Pierce’s kingdom. Steve should’ve done more, should be _doing_ more. The warning signs had been right there in front of him, but he’d been too blind to see them. Sideways glances, absences at council meetings, the end of hushed conversations caught in the corridors of Castle Lynbrook. It could have been stopped.

“There will be more” Steve repeated, staring at the old, discoloured straw beneath his feet. James scoffed.

“Thought I was headed for the gallows” he said, tilting his head. “You wouldn’t waste food on a dead man”.

“Not yet you’re not” Steve sighed, standing again and scrubbing a hand through his beard. It was getting long, and rugged under his fingers, though it failed to cover the scar he wore like a necklace across his throat. He’d ask Scott give him a shave. “We need to ask you some questions first. You’ll have enough to eat while you’re here; I give you my word”. Not entirely sure why he was making promises to a southern spy, Steve pressed on. “You don’t have to hide it, at any rate. It’ll attract the rats”.

“Good” said James, spitting out the word, and it took Steve a moment to realise what he meant, not entirely able to hide the disbelief on his face. He shook his head, feeling a little sick at the prospect of the prisoner eating a rat, raw and wriggling.

Five years ago, he’d prided himself on the close relationship he had with his people, but it was evident now more than ever that he didn’t know them at all.

“I’ll send for the healer” he said instead of apologising, nodding at the boy’s hand. James worked for Pierce, _he_ wasn’t who Steve should be begging the pardon of, promising to do better for.

“Don’t bother” said James, examining his nails. In the dim lighting, the blood looked almost black, sticky and smeared down his fingers. “If you’re chopping them off, what’s the point”. He sounded so incredible blasé about his own hands being severed from his body that Steve was rather taken aback.

“Look, James” said Steve, something in him snapping. “I don’t want to have to torture you to get information. Honestly, I wish that chamber didn’t have to exist at all. But it does, and I need answers. Either you’re a spy for Pierce, and an invasion is coming, or it isn’t, and that doubt is more than enough for the council to hand you back to Rollins. So you need to tell me where you were taking those papers, and why, right now”.

James tilted his head back against the wall, fixing Steve with an appraising look, his injured leg stretched out before him.

“That’s probably the least bullshit thing you’ve said to me this whole time” he said. Steve waited, heart thudding in his chest, hoping for more. “But, I didn’t steal any papers”. That gave him pause. Steve frowned, confusion flooding his mind.

“What?” he demanded. “You were found with the parchment in the satchel you stole, you can’t deny it”.

“Then they must’ve been in there already” said James, that dull tone creeping back into his voice, like Steve was boring him. Tough shit.

His first instinct was to refute the claims, press on with the interrogation. James was lying to save his skin; he shouldn’t pay this claim too much heed. Though, there was a slight nagging sensation at the back of his mind, tendrils of doubt creeping in, beginning to take hold. _Could_ they have been in the bag already?

The satchel was the one he took to council meetings, where those sorts of papers were shared and discussed. But surely he couldn’t have been that careless. Couldn’t have forgotten to lock them away.

“ _Where_ were you taking them?” he pressed. James had the audacity to roll his eyes.

“I can’t even read, _dalcop_. Who do you think I am?”.

“I’m uncertain” said Steve, honestly, letting the insult slide. There were so many contradictions. This boy clearly wasn’t highly born, but apparently fought like an elite soldier. Had been taught how to escape shackles, and withstand torture. The strange markings carved into his skin, the mysterious circumstances of his break in…there were too many questions, and not enough answers.

“If you were foolish enough to leave them lying around…” James started, the implication clear.

“They weren’t _lying around_ , they were locked away” he shot back, frustration seeping into his tone, though with a sinking feeling in his stomach Steve realised it was somewhat directed towards himself. If he truly had left them out, and not secured like the rest of the papers were, in a guarded room along the corridor, it would explain how James had acquired them so easily.

Even so, he didn’t buy the ‘accidentally stolen’ theory. If the papers had been left out, they would be easy pickings for a trained spy. As James wasn’t admitting to his crime, and even blaming Steve for it, then it seemed inevitable that the council would vote for him to be handed back to Rollins. He couldn’t wait that long for answers. 

“You killed a man” Steve said bluntly. “Put three others in the infirmary. You’ll have to do better than that”.

“Listen rakefire, I’ve told you the truth. I didn’t take any damned papers” said James, enunciating each word.

“So let’s say you really didn’t know about the papers” said Steve, losing patience and starting to pace, the arduous conversation making him restless. “Why did you steal my gold?”. James gave him a revolted look.

“Do you need a fucking illustration?” he said, the anger evident in his tone. “We don’t all know where our next meal is coming from, your Majesty”. Steve looked away, biting the inside of his cheek in shame. The words stung. He’d realised he’d phrased the question terribly almost immediately, but he couldn’t abide being addressed by the title he was born to inherit, but never would.

“You had no other employment?” he asked, changing the topic rather than continue with his intended question as to why James had broken into the most secure chambers in the Ruins, rather than steal coin from an easier quarry.

“I’m not a whore, if that’s what you’re getting at”.

“I didn’t mean-” said Steve, sighing. Christ in heaven. “You weren’t able to find employment in the village?”.

“People aren’t exactly lining up to give more of their money away”.

“So you stole?”. James was silent for a moment, clearly wrestling with indecision. Thieves had their hands severed, but traitors were killed. It was an obvious choice.

“I stole” he echoed. “Didn’t fancy grovelling for work just to slog around after the blacksmith for a farthing a week. I’m not scrubbing that asshole’s floor until the plague catches up with me”. Despite himself, despite the situation, Steve couldn’t help the huff of laughter that escaped him. James’s surprise showed on his face.

“He is an asshole, isn’t he?”.

“The biggest” said James, slightly warily. Apparently shit-talking the village blacksmith with the man holding him prisoner wasn’t part of his usual routine. It wasn’t part of Steve’s either, and just as he was about to inwardly chastise himself, it hit him. James _knew_ the blacksmith. Knew him well enough to know his foul temper, his reputation among the villagers for his poor wages and cruel behaviour. He’d been to the Ruins before.

Steve swallowed, trying not to let the sudden realisation show on his face. Like any game, it was best not to give his cards away. How many times had he been to the Ruins? Was he merely observing? Gathering information? How had he manged to get within the walls?

“Where were you trained?” he tried instead, only a slight hitch in his voice. He noticed the change in James immediately, suddenly still, closed off, eyes darting to the floor. Steve crouched down, painfully aware he might catch a finger in the eye for his troubles.

“Answer the question”.

“I wasn’t” James said reluctantly, gritting his teeth as he looked away. Steve reached out, grabbing James’s chin and forcing his head up, thumb pressing into the little divot there. Those pale eyes narrowed.

“Don’t lie to me” Steve growled. “You think I won’t put you back there if I need to?”. James gave him a hard look, shaking off Steve’s hold before pressing his good hand to his stomach.

“Your threats don’t scare me”.

“What about this situation do you not understand?” Steve demanded, his exasperation and anger seeping through. Did he not realise how many lives were at stake?

“There _is_ no situation, asshole. Not from me anyway. If our gracious majesty decided he wanted to finish what he started, do you not think someone would have noticed by now? You’ve had me in here for days”.

“I’ve had you in here _one_ night” Steve corrected, sighing. It was true, an army had not yet been sighted. But the prisoner’s words seemed as false as he was. There was more going on that met the eye, Steve was sure of it. His gaze traced the scars on the back of James’s hands, and in the faint light he found they curled around his wrists like manacles, falling away as his forearms widened.

“How did you get those?” he asked, voice quieter. They were so deliberate. Whether they were patterns, or intended for some other purpose, or perhaps just there to hurt, Steve wasn’t sure. James took a deep breath, and Steve noticed he was sweating slightly, forehead glistening. Was he finally getting somewhere?

“I don’t remember” he said, shaking his head.

“If you lie to me one more time-”.

“I _don’t_!” he said, louder. “I-”. James paused for a second, breathing shallow, before he lurched to the side, bracing himself against the hay as he vomited over the flagstones.

“ _Sard_ ” said Steve, jumping backwards as James heaved on the ground.

“Shit” gasped James in turn. “The food”.

Steve grimaced. He’d only had the tomatoes, and one slice of bread and cheese at most, the rest buried under the hay. What had James been surviving on, if this food was too rich for him. James took a few breaths, shoulders rolling, and Steve reached out, unsure of quite what to do but wanting to steady him.

“Don’t touch me” James spat, recoiling as he caught his breath. Steve raised his hands in acquiescence, sighing. A moment passed, and the two glared at each other for a moment, mirroring expressions of anger, and distrust. James wiped his mouth on his jacket, on _Steve’s_ jacket, before looking up at him again. “How long are you going to keep me here?”.

“Until we know for certain what happened yesterday” said Steve, frankly. Until he knew James was not a spy, an assassin, sent by Pierce to finish what he began in the throne room of Castle Lynbrook, five long years ago. The scar on Steve’s neck throbbed in a phantom echo. “And until we know what to do with you”.

James let his back hit the cell wall with a dull thud, legs curling up beneath him as far as the shackles and his injuries allowed. 

“You’re no different” he said, flat and resigned. Steve felt something unpleasant coil in his gut. It wasn’t an out and out confession, and James hadn’t specified _who_ exactly he was comparing Steve to, but it didn’t take a scholar. He slammed the gate of the cell a little too hard on his way out, thoughts churning as he wondered whether he could prove him wrong, ignoring the grim smile on James’s face that made him feel like it was a battle he’d already lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: mentions/aftermath of torture, sick
> 
> Dalcop = dull-headed, a particularly stupid person (this is me attempting to find a medieval equivalent of punk/jerk haha)  
> Rakefire = someone who’s outstayed their welcome - Bucky wants Steve out of his cell!
> 
> Fun fact: how Bruce removed Bucky’s arrowhead was how surgeon John Bradmore removed an arrowhead from Henry V’s face in 1403! :s 
> 
> Thank you for reading!! I hope you enjoyed :D   
> ～Bee <3
> 
> [My tumblr](https://buckybees.tumblr.com/)


	3. Tricks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quickly, before he could second-guess himself further, Steve tossed him the knife. James caught it easily in his uninjured hand, chains clinking, reflexes sharp despite his condition.   
> “Show me something you can do”.  
> “What?” said James, dumbly, staring at the knife in his hands like he couldn’t quite believe he’d been given it.   
> “Show me something” Steve repeated, crossing his arms. James raised an eyebrow.   
> “I’m not a dancing monkey”.   
> “Yet you’re in a cage”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I’m not dead 😂 as usual, uni has been stopping me from working on this fic :( but I hope you’re all well and safe and that you enjoy chapter 3! <3

The rider arrived at first light a week later. Clattering hoof falls sounded loud and echoing in the courtyard, the few tired-eyed villagers that had risen to set up their stalls retreating at the noise. It had been a long and difficult week, with the citizens all still crammed into the courtyard and keep, and Steve had broken up more than one disagreement, though most had pulled together in the crisis. Those market sellers dealing in food were still able to distribute what little crops they had left each morning, and the soldiers’ rations had halved to accommodate the extra mouths. Steve prayed the letter would end their uncertainty.

Hands numb from another night on the crumbling battlements, Steve grabbed the reigns of the black horse as it trotted to a stop, the rider swinging her leg over and dismounting. Weary and sore from the intense journey, she removed a small scroll of parchment from a discreet flap within her boot, pressing it into Steve’s hands with shaking fingers. Breath misting, he sent her to the kitchens, to rest and fill her belly. The letter he took to Sam.

Gripping the parchment tightly, nails digging into his palm, Steve hurriedly climbed the stairs leading to the upper floors of the keep. He met several early risers and a guard on the narrow staircase, and stuck close to the wall, doing his best to pass them quickly.

As he had been made a knight shortly before the Fall, Sam was among those granted more agreeable accommodation on the upper, southern side of the keep. Agreeable was a relative term, of course, but the erosion wasn’t so bad in this section of the castle, sheltered from the east winds and the hammering rain that came from the north.

Reaching his chambers, Steve rapped on the wooden door, quiet enough to be discreet, and Sam appeared a moment later, having also risen with the dawn. Slipping inside, Steve bolted the door with a clatter, quickly turning and unfurling the tightly coiled paper, revealing the message concealed within. Inky squiggles, slightly smudged. Nonsensical to him, and he could only hope, any other prying eyes.

Sam snapped into action, sweeping a few papers to the side of his desk and spreading the parchment out in the centre, grabbing a fresh sheet along with ink and a quill. 

As well as fulfilling his duty as a knight and soldier, and acting as a falconer at the Ruins, Sam had a gift for codes. Deciphering, poetry, literature, it all came easily to him. His tutor in Lynbrook had been most impressed with his talents, teaching him the art of transcribing, translations, and even embossing frontispieces and manuscripts as the monks did.

It had certainly been impressive, and the skills Sam had honed in times of peace had saved countless lives since the Fall. Naturally, open communication with Peggy was impossible. Undercover in the south, the spy risked her life with each letter detailing Pierce’s movements, as well as the entire operation of the Resistance if one were to fall into the wrong hands.

Steve shuddered to think of the torturous end a rider would meet if captured, but unauthorised messenger birds were shot from the battlements by Pierce’s archers, the letters seized. Smuggling them out in code was the only way.

They included as little information about the Ruins, or their own lives, as possible. Peggy did the same.The letters were for essential information, not personal correspondence. It was a necessary measure for safety, but Steve could imagine how incredibly alienating it must be for Peggy. He didn’t even know what her role was, how she earnt a living in Pierce’s Lynbrook. It was just too risky.

There was a chance, that way, that even if the letter _was_ intercepted, Pierce wouldn’t be able to trace it back to her. A slim chance, certainly, but Steve would take every precaution to keep Peggy safe, including writing in a stringent code. Only Peggy and Sam knew the system well, and Steve intended it to stay that way.

The knight worked fast, deciphering the code and translating the message onto the fresh parchment, but it felt like an eternity with only the scratching of the quill filling the air. Steve hovered beside him, alternating between that and pacing the ominously creaking floorboards behind Sam’s chair.

“Look, make yourself useful, will you?” said Sam eventually, growing tired of the repetitive noise. “Fetch another quill, this one’s just about had it. And not my nice feather” he cautioned, raising an eyebrow. “I’m saving it”.

“For what?” Steve asked, glad of something to occupy him as he scanned Sam’s mismatched shelves. He selected a new quill, a dark brown feather picked up from the woodland not far from the Ruins, and began to sharpen the end, leaving Sam’s precious peacock quill well alone. A remnant from grander lives left behind. Sam shrugged, turning back to the code.

“Need something to pen my most magnificent love poem with”. Steve huffed a laugh, despite the sick anticipation in his stomach, and testing the nib on his finger, slicing a well down the middle, before dropping it onto Sam’s desk.

“What does it say?” he asked, peering over his shoulder, fingers tapping on the desk. Sam swatted at him.

“I told you I can’t work with you pacing behind me. It’ll only take a moment”. Steve backed off, settling for wringing his hands in the corner as Sam decoded the rest of the letter.

After another painstaking minute, Sam held the parchment out before him, checking it over before he passed it over his shoulder to Steve.

He grabbed the letter, scanning it impatiently. Three executions, including Lord Hammer; a councilman appointed during his father’s reign who had been more than happy to accept the change in leadership. There was no specified reason for his fate, though Steve suspected it wasn’t for having a change of heart.

A brief summary of the harsh winter, famine and chill taking more lives than could be counted, while Pierce left the bodies where they fell in the streets. Steve felt sick.

Then- what he’d been looking for. According to Peggy, while he was as cruel and tactical as ever, Pierce showed no sign of preparing to march north. He spent most of his days in the council chambers, pouring over maps of the world or studying cartography, his fascination with ships and expansion only growing from his days as a councilman, while the people starved outside the walls.

No change to the ordinary. Steve grimaced in unease, the possible implications of this running through his mind. This either confirmed James truly was just a petty thief, or meant the usurper was biding his time. Acting in secret until he gained more information about the Resistance. It was a possibility too, that any details regarding spies in the south were simply kept so secretive that even Peggy could not find evidence of them. Reserved only for Pierce and his Privy Councillors. Even if James had failed, there was nothing to stop Pierce trying again. Steve had gained enough cynicism to know that there’d be hundreds, if not thousands, of people willing to assassinate him if it could make life easier for them or their families. 

Sighing, Steve passed the letter back to Sam, who was knelt waiting with flints in his hands. He struck them together, and after a few attempts the parchment caught alight, the pair watching in silence as it was consumed.

Steve sighed, the uneasy feeling still lingering in his stomach. He didn’t blame Peggy in the slightest, she’d risked her life to get him that information, he just wished there was more clarity. Or that James would be more cooperative.

He supposed he could reassure himself with the knowledge that Pierce was not mustering an army en mass, but that still left room for covert operations: assassination attempts, spies, it was all possible.

“It’s a whole different world down there now” said Sam quietly, poking at the scorched remains of the parchment, the soot spreading a dark smudge across the floor.

“Yeah” Steve agreed, crouching down to join Sam. If he ever reached his homeland again, he feared he wouldn’t recognise it.

“What do you think we’d be doing now, if we were still there?” Sam asked, expression wistful. Steve shrugged minutely, crossing his forearms on his knees, and resting his chin on top.

What would they be doing? It was morn, so they’d likely be training. Captain Phillips would’ve done drills with them, putting them through their paces no matter the weather, and Steve’s lips twitched at the memories of his old captain dragging him out of the mud whenever his arms gave out.

He wondered what he’d think if he could see him now, a foot taller and twice as heavy, completing the same exercises that once plagued him without breaking a sweat. Probably something about footwork, he reasoned. Phillips had never coddled him, despite being the sole, sickly heir to the throne. Steve appreciated it now more than he could say.

After the troops had been run ragged, they’d head to the bathhouse, Steve trading jokes and quips with his old unit: Dum Dum, Gabe, Dernier, Morita, and Falsworth. He could still remember their raucous laughter, and clung to the memories, wishing he could be that free again, just for a moment.

In the afternoon, though he had been in his early twenties before the Fall, he’d still have been whisked away for lessons by his tutor, who was of the philosophy that learning should never stop, no matter how old you became. Steve had grumbled occasionally, but usually enjoyed his lessons, a welcome chance to use his mind rather than his fatigued body.

Mister Erskine had been the best tutor he could’ve asked for, guiding Steve through astronomy, philosophy, and Latin, and gifting him with music, foreign languages and the arts.

One of Steve’s most treasured memories involved his tutor taking him south from Lynbrook, almost to the coast, to paint the fields of wildflowers that grew there in the summertime, a cool breeze on their faces. Sorrow tugged at his heart for the kind old man, who gave his life to save Steve’s.

Late afternoon, he’d be taken hawking, or perhaps hunting by some of his father’s soldiers, though watching his friends struggle through the undergrowth with beating sticks while he sat useless on his horse hadn’t been Steve’s favourite part of the day.

Once the sky had darkened, he’d be sat at the magnificent dining table in the great hall of Castle Lynbrook, laden with dishes bearing all kinds of delicacies as a roaring fire burnt warm. His parents always ate with him, no matter what trials and stresses the kingdom had brought that day, the rich flavours bursting on their tongues.

Steve had grown used to simpler food of course, the only meat whatever Clint and his archers could find still living in the barren fields and woodland surrounding the Ruins. Pheasant usually, perhaps the occasional rabbit. Nothing like the swan, peacock or wild boar they used to feast upon heartily at this time of year.

As they ate, they’d talk. Steve would listen to the account of the day’s events, his mother putting on a brave face despite any issues they were facing, and his father fussing over any scrapes he’d gained at training, wanting to know how to help him move forwards.

After dinner, if he wasn’t up to anything he shouldn’t be, Steve would retire to his bedchamber, his mother’s kiss still lingering on his cheek.

Life had been peaceful, under his father’s rule. For the most part, anyway. Joseph had always had a knack for soothing a troubled situation, a trait which he could hardly claim to have passed on to his son. Still, Steve had been able to rest, in the knowledge he was safe. Catching a few hours was lucky in the Ruins, if he wasn’t taking a watch on the walls and skipped sleep altogether, half-slumbers inbetween training and council meetings seeing him through the day.

Back in Lynbrook, his dog, Bo, a greyhound too sweet for hunting, would curl up at the foot of his bed despite the servant’s effort to move him out. Steve would always give him a scratch before dosing off. He often wondered what had happened to Bo. Although while he could never move on, he was learning it was best not to dwell on the past, as much as he could help it. There was no comfort in ghosts.

Steve glanced over at Sam, who had a similar distant look in his eyes, lost in the past. Maybe they’d have gone for a run at sunrise, seen the yellows and oranges emerge bold and brilliant over the skyline, bursting at the dawn. Unlike Steve, Sam had never struggled with physical training, always leaving him in the dust until after the Fall. Though, he’d always slow his pace to match him on their morning jogs. So had Riley.

He would’ve ran with them as always, laughing breathlessly and tugging Steve along when he thought he couldn’t go any further, legs beginning to wobble beneath him. Steve had a sudden urge to pull out his old sketchbook, to stare at the faded likeness he’d drawn of their friend several years ago. It was all they had of him now.

Steve sighed, nudging Sam’s arm and giving him a reassuring smile. They’d lost more than they could have ever expected, but had each other, at least. And Steve was grateful for that.

The following morning was grey and drizzling, and after a pitiful night’s sleep punctuated by the familiar hollow ache in his gut for all that he’d lost, Steve headed down to the training grounds. The field lay just outside the ruined walls, and had been cleared of the tall weeds and stubborn roots that had run rampant in the century that lay between occupants. It had been a lot of work, but although the ground was somewhat uneven it served as good a place as any for the Resistance to practice on.

Clad in his usual battered old armour, dented star on the chest, Steve cast an eye over the soldiers present. The increased recruitment efforts for the Resistance over the past year or so meant there were more figures than usual, but they had hardly enough soldiers to call themselves an army.

Along with being situated in the relatively empty midlands, with most larger towns over a day’s ride away, it was common knowledge what Pierce did to his enemies. People knew what they’d be risking if they joined the Resistance. While life had grown harder for everyone under his regime, most commoners in the midlands were far enough removed that Pierce himself wasn’t the worst of their problems, more the famine and arbitrary violence he did nothing to prevent.

Nobody jumped eagerly into committing treason, apart from Steve and his unit of course, unless they could be handsomely paid. And money wasn’t something the Ruins had a lot of. Soldiers were taken care of as best they could, but everyone was scraping by, relying on measly export tunnage to the outlying villages, or bartering wares on covert trips to the nearest northern towns.

The vaults at Castle Lynbrook had been piled high with riches, stacks of coins and artefacts from ancient wonders, the citadel thriving with trade and exports transported throughout the country, and over the seas to Asgard and beyond.

Steve wondered what Pierce had done with the savings, depleted the stash through his love of warships, or increased it with every last coin he could wring from the people. He suspected the truth lay somewhere in between. Pierce certainly wasn’t spending their taxes on the construction of schools or alms-houses, at any rate.

Steve sighed, trying to rid himself of the thoughts and focus on the soldiers they _did_ have. His unit stood at the front of the group, Natasha and Clint demonstrating a disarming manoeuvre involving a short blade. Clint lunged, and Natasha sidestepped, twisting his arm downwards, so the blade was kept clear of her body. She shifted her weight, heightening the pressure on Clint’s arm until he was forced to drop the knife, where it fell to the frosty grass with a dull thunk.

The recruits were nodding, some mimicking the motions as they processed Natasha’s instructions, forming pairs to try attacking and countering for themselves. While usually trained with the Resistance, Steve decided to observe for now, moving between the different groups to get a sense of the recruits’ abilities.

To say they were struggling with the knives was an understatement. Some had the strength to surpass their partner’s counter-defences, but lacked the aim and precision needed to make more than a lucky shot. Others were quick, and could get in close to their opponent easily, but fumbled when it came to disarming, the dull practice blades nicking their skin before they could push back to a safe distance.

He knew he had to keep faith, give them time, but that was a force he had no control over. Pierce could advance at any moment. They had to be ready _now_.

Sam and Hope, a quick soldier who excelled in footwork, were sparring nearby, and Steve watched as the knight advanced holding the dagger. Hope deflected, using the move the captains had demonstrated, and countered with a swish of her own knife. Sam dropped his dagger with a hiss, shaking his hand to alleviate the pain.

Beside them, Pietro was retrieving his knife from where it had been thrown across the field, his sister Wanda raising a challenging eyebrow when he returned. Someone else caught Steve’s eye, and he turned to see his servant, Scott, waving his opponent’s knife aloft in victory. Steve huffed out a breath of laughter, despite his grim mood.

Hailing from the midlands, Scott hadn’t experienced the Fall himself, though still retained the awe associated with Steve, even if he no longer wore a crown. Eager to help in any way possible, he’d been taken on as both a recruit and a manservant, making sure Steve had everything he needed for training before joining the sessions himself. He was growing to be quite the soldier, Steve thought, pride blooming in his chest.

Even so, they were no match for the royal army. Thousands strong and armed to the teeth.

“Time!” called Natasha, rubbing her forehead, and the soldiers relaxed, stepping away from each other. “Make sure you’re using the hammer grip” she said, raising her arm aloft and demonstrating how to hold the blade. “The reverse grip isn’t so useful unless you’re coming from above”.

There were a few murmurs amongst the soldiers, and a rearrangement of blades, and Natasha sighed, collecting herself. Steve shared her fears. If some recruits were still struggling with holding the blade, let alone using it, they would not last on the battlefield.Though despite what Peggy had reported, an army could be just around the corner.

This latest scare with James had reminded Steve that complacency was not an option. Although, the thought of the boy in the dungeons reminded Steve of what Clint had reported of his supposed abilities. Formidable with a blade.

Steve mulled it over as the knife exercise was repeated, improvements added, before Natasha and Clint moved on to demonstrate a throwing exercise.

The group moved to the edge of the training field, where a row of old, thick tree stumps too stubborn to be removed were waiting. Though it was generally considered unwise to throw one’s weapon, there were certain situations where it could save a life, particularly from a distance, as well as improving aim and strength, and thus was a worthy addition to training.

The soldiers formed several lines in front of the trees, and Steve slipped in behind Sam, who landed a blade securely in the tree stump with a thunk. Natasha shot him an approving smile, before a second blade sailed miles over the target.

“Did you even look where you were throwing that one?” she asked. Sam shrugged, an amused smile playing on his face.

“Got distracted”.

“Distract yourself a better aim” Natasha retorted, moving on to the next soldier, but Steve didn’t miss the small smile on her lips. Sam landed his last blade perfectly, and with a grin too pleased to _just_ be about hitting the target, he headed to the back of the line.

Steve launched his own knives at the trunk in quick succession, landing two well and one a little high. Beside him, T’Challa stepped up to the mark, and Steve watched as he threw a knife with such force it embedded almost to the hilt. Steve nodded, impressed, and more than a little encouraged.

“Your Highness”.

“Captain” T’Challa replied, turning back to his target. Letting the next recruit take up her place, Steve joined Natasha and Clint on the side-lines, observing the prince throw the rest of his blades.

He owed much to T’Challa. Sent to England six years ago as the crown prince of Wakanda, to study and train as Steve did, his visit was only supposed to last a year. The placement wasn’t unusual, Steve himself had been sent abroad to Asgard at thirteen summers to train with the Odinson children; though his own studies hadn’t been interrupted by a double assassination of the monarch and his queen. 

After the Fall, rather than escape and return home, T’Challa and his sister Shuri had instead followed Steve up to the Ruins, along with a hundred others fleeing Pierce’s rule. While their father, the reigning king of Wakanda, had issued several demands for their safe return, both siblings had refused point blank to leave until Steve was reinstated.

It pained him more than he could say to think that day would likely never come, that they were throwing their lives away on a wasted hope for his own, but the pair wouldn’t hear of it. There had never been anyone as quietly confident as T’Challa. He was a fierce warrior, and Shuri had the finest mind he had ever known. Their steadfast reassurance and guidance had been like a port in a storm, though it seemed certain the waves were rising up again.

The next drill was another hand to hand combat move, focusing on striking. Steve went through the motions with Rhodey, a skilled knight and member of the council who had survived the Fall, before moving back to speak to Natasha.

The captain had a grim expression on her face, and was observing the recruits carefully as Clint offered instruction to a boy who couldn’t have been older than 16. They were truly desperate.

“What are you thinking?” she asked him, not looking away from the soldiers.

“That there’s a man in the dungeons who could supposedly put the whole Resistance to shame”. Natasha sighed.

“We’ve only got Clint to vouch for that” she said. It was a good point, admittedly, but Steve still trusted Clint’s word, and in any case, he wasn’t the only one to have seen James in action.

“And Wells” Steve added.

“Wells is dead”.

“Exactly”. Natasha’s mouth twitched in acquiescence.

“Alright, so you give him a knife. What are you going to do when he stabs you with it?”.

“I won’t give him a _real_ one” said Steve, shaking his head quickly. He hadn’t quite lost his mind to that extent. “A training knife”.

“The ones made of wood?” she questioned. “Tony was using some in his experiments”.

“Why would he be experimenting with-” Steve took a deep breath. “Never mind. There’ll be one left, I’m sure”.

“You can still stab someone with wood” Natasha reminded. “It just hurts more”.

“I’ll bear that in mind” said Steve, with a grim smile, before a thought struck him. “How many thefts have been reported this week?”.

“None, that I know of” said Natasha. “Why?”. Steve shook his head, looking out across the field.

“No reason”.

It took as long as the first lighting of the torches in the winter afternoon for Steve to make his way down to the dungeons, wooden knife concealed in the pocket of his breeches. Pietro was positioned at the entrance, along with another guard Steve didn’t recognise, and they both nodded to him as he passed.

The other cells had mostly been unoccupied on his previous visits, but on this occasion he was met with watchful eyes, or a prisoner’s back as they turned determinately away from the bars. Most, Clint informed him, were in for some minor offence: fighting, or disorderly conduct, and would be released soon enough. James was the only prisoner whose fate was undetermined.

The boy sat at the far end of the cell, head resting dejectedly against the stone wall. He didn’t look up as Steve approached the bars, eyes staring blankly ahead. His mood was understandable, Steve reasoned. He’d been in the dungeons for over a week now, and it was a dismal, dingy place to be confined to. Unlocking the cell, Steve entered, pocketing the keys alongside the knife. 

James turned his head then, long, messy hair dropping limply to hang around his face, tired blue eyes staring out at him.

“How’s your hand?” Steve asked. James had tucked his injured hand into his chest, protected by the wall. He wondered how it was healing.

“Fine” said James, voice scratchy from disuse as he remained hunched where he was. Steve sighed.

“You going to show me?”. He needed to see if he was well enough to do this. James reluctantly uncoiled himself, holding out his hand. It was coated in dried blood, and the spaces where his fingernails should be were wet and dark. Steve grimaced.

“Sard” he said quietly. “Why didn’t you let the physician tend to it?”. James shook his head.

“It’ll heal” he said. “Don’t want them touching me again”.

Steve inhaled, biting his tongue. He wanted to protest further, fetch Bruce immediately, but from the look on James’s face he wasn’t going to make it easy for him. He shifted defensively, and Steve caught a glimpse of the older scars, winding around his wrists and disappearing beneath the jacket he’d given James a week ago, dirtied from its time in the dungeons.

He’d known pain before. Long, cruel pain. Was this Pierce? He imagined the usurper standing over James, as he was now, and the thought brought a sick feeling to his stomach.

Pushing the would subject would only jam the wedge further between them, but James would have to see a healer sooner or later, if he wanted to keep the use of his hand.

Steeling himself, Steve pulled out the training knife, weighing it in his hand. It was heavier than it looked, and though it was made of wood it almost felt like a real knife, weighted and large.

James watched the motion warily, eyes tracing its movements through the air. He didn’t look afraid, it was wooden after all, but there was an alertness in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.

Quickly, before he could second-guess himself further, Steve tossed him the knife. James caught it easily in his uninjured hand, chains clinking, reflexes sharp despite his condition.

“Show me something you can do”.

“What?” said James, dumbly, staring at the knife in his hands like he couldn’t quite believe he’d been given it. 

“Show me something” Steve repeated, crossing his arms. James raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not a dancing monkey”.

“Yet you’re in a cage”.

Despite his reservations about the prisoner, Steve could relate to the analogy, albeit in a distant way. During his time as a prince he’d been paraded around like a circus animal on royal progresses more than once, dressed up to the stars in robes so stiff he could hardly move. Even in the early days of the Resistance, it was important that Steve showed his face, and more importantly the slash across his neck, to the villagers; tangible proof that the lost prince was alive, and recruiting soldiers.

“Now” said Steve. “Or I’ll take it away”. A glare from James followed by an experimental twist of the knife in his fingers told Steve that the threat had worked. While the prisoner was reluctant to do as he said, it was clear the unoccupied hours had started to gnaw at his mind. 

“You’re lucky I favour this hand” he said, flexing his fingers, injured left hand curled in his lap. Steve didn’t trust the stillness of it for a moment. Then, with a flick of his wrist, James began to spin the knife.

It moved between his fingers like a silk scarf, weightless and fluid. Steve watched the wooden blade flip high into the air, arching downwards only to be caught effortlessly and spun around again. It was almost beautiful, even with the surroundings, and despite himself Steve was sure if the knife was indeed a scarf or a flaming torch then James would look quite at home in a travelling circus.

Absorbed in the motions, Steve imagined James fighting, the knife slashing at foes instead of air, on a windswept battlefield instead of a dungeon in chains. It would be a magnificent sight, he was certain.

Footsteps echoed distantly in the corridor, and Steve shifted, swallowing before holding out his hand. James caught the hilt deftly, pausing at Steve’s outstretched palm. He looked up at it for a second, before reluctantly handing it over, his sadness strangely transparent. Steve almost felt bad, but reminded himself who the prisoner was. Even if he _hadn’t_ stolen the papers deliberately, he was still a threat.

“Why did you want me to do that?” James asked, head tilting as Steve pocketed the knife.

“I wanted to see what you could do”. James scoffed.

“You’ve don’t have me in the best conditions”.

“Exactly” said Steve, begrudgingly. James was not only half-starved, but injured, and he could still do things with a knife that would Steve or any of his soldiers months to learn, if not years, a luxury they didn’t have. That made James either very useful, or very dangerous. Or both.

“Who taught you how to use a knife like that?”. It was almost imperceptible, but Steve spotted the moment when James closed off, shoulders tightening.

“I don’t remember”. Steve sighed.

“You’re not helping yourself, James. You’ve not given us anything to suggest you’re not working for the usurper”.

The prisoner said nothing, just fixed Steve with a glare that was quickly becoming familiar. It didn’t make _sense_. If James had been sent to kill him, with skill like that, Steve should be lying cold in a crypt. But he wasn’t.

He couldn’t get the feeling out of his head that he had this all wrong. If James would only _tell_ him what he knew, his experiences.

Taking out his keys, Steve shook his head, unlocking the cell to let himself out. It was getting late, and he’d planned to take an evening watch on the ramparts, to think things through. Getting more out of James was a battle he’d have to fight tomorrow.

A glance down the corridor had Steve raising an eyebrow at the realisation that there was one less guard at the end of the corridor, leaving Pietro alone by the stairs. He pursed his lips a little, clicking the cell closed, eyes flitting to James once more as he moved away.

The prisoner had retreated to the corner, hands limp in his lap, watching Steve unblinking as he walked away.

Steve smiled tightly at Pietro as he passed, unsurprised to find Scott waiting for him at the top of the stairs, a worried crease in his brow.

“Councilman Fury wants to see you, sire” he said.

“Thank you, Scott” said Steve, resigned to the following conversation. As they headed along the corridor, he saw a flash of a navy guards uniform slip around a corner. Steve knew that Fury had people inside the Ruins, to provide some precautionary reporting on certain councilmen’s movements, but he was not aware that he’d become one of them. It produced a nasty emotion in him; resentment and anger, deep inside his chest. Why couldn’t Fury trust him?

Reaching the uppermost floor of the keep, he dismissed Scott, who to his credit had been smiling and greeting anyone they came across, saving Steve from taking his frustration out on the wrong person. He wrapped his knuckles hard on the old wooden door, and a chair scraped within.

“Enter” Fury called, and Steve stepped over the threshold. Councilman Fury was seated at his desk, papers spread out around him, and a hard look in the eye not obscured by a dark patch. His usual black tunic was obscured by a threadbare fur, in an attempt to ward off the chill, and one finger drummed against arm of his chair.

“You’ve been busy, Captain” he said, evenly. Steve remained still and silent, waiting for more. “The spy in the dungeons is on all of our minds, but what exactly possessed you to give a weapon to a prisoner who killed a man?”.

“I had to know what he could do” said Steve. “Captain Barton saw his abilities first hand when he captured him, and attested to his skill. Our soldiers are struggling”.

“This is _war_ , Captain. Of all the reckless decisions-”.

“I did what I thought was best for the Resistance” Steve shot back.

“-giving Pierce’s spy a weapon, right in front of you-”.

“It was _wooden_ ” he protested.

“If he’s as adept as you say, it could’ve been made of maze and he’d still be a threat. We don’t need fine skills, we need strength in numbers, and the training we’ve always relied upon”. 

“Nick” Steve sighed, voice softer now. “Things have changed; we need to adapt to survive. We did have an army, before the Fall, thousands strong. And they deserted us. We can’t salvage something that died five years ago”. Fury stared at him, expression tight.

“I knew it was risky, seeing what he could do. I already went over it with Romanov” Steve continued. “But it paid off. He’s remarkable chained in a cell, I can’t imagine what he would be like in combat. The Captains could watch him, see if it helped with training the recruits-”.

“Training the recruits is all you should be focusing on right now” Fury interjected. “If you take my advice you’ll leave that prisoner alone, until I have what I need from him”.

“Which is?” asked Steve, keeping his voice even.

“A confession” said Fury. “Admittance of his guilt so we can get him hanged and draw a line under this matter. Hell, most of the council doesn’t even think we should wait for that”.

“No” said Steve, firmly, shaking his head. Hanging a prisoner, without so much as a trial? They would not stoop to that. “We’d be no better than Pierce”. Fury sighed, rubbing a hand across his forehead.

“This spy knows details of the Resistance. He jeopardises everything we’ve worked for. I don’t see how we can release him with that information”.

“He says he cannot read” Steve argued back. “I don’t believe him to be a spy, Nick”. Steve blinked. He didn’t know where the words had come from, really. That nagging inkling deep inside him, given voice.

“Not a spy” said Fury, unconvinced. “He didn’t break into your chambers by accident, Steven”.

“He was hungry, have you seen the size of him? He wanted coin, food, not documents. I suppose he thought my chambers would contain more”.

“You suppose? You need to be _certain_. This boy could easily pretend to be illiterate whilst gathering information”.

“Soldiers have been reporting petty thefts for months, with no real change. This week? Not one reported; it fits. Purses stolen, no trace of a forced entry, no witnesses”.

“But there were witnesses”.

“This time, yes. But he must’ve been desperate enough to take that risk”. Fury was watching him carefully.

“Steve” he said. “I know you’re smart. You know there’s more going on here than meets the eye. Petty thieves aren’t usually so highly trained”.

“I think he was a prisoner” said Steve. Again, the words rose unbidden, the theory knitting together in Steve’s mind even as he spoke. But it felt right. Fury paused.

“In the south?”.

“Yes. It makes sense, listen” said Steve, swallowing. “He has these marks, these carvings on his skin. It’s plainly from torture. Long, cruel torture”. Fury shifted in his chair, but considered his words.

“Continue”.

“He won’t speak about the south, or Pierce, but I think it’s because he’s afraid, not because he’s one of them. He claims he doesn’t remember how he learnt to wield a knife as he does, but they must have trained him down there, or perhaps he’s a deserted soldier”.

“And how did he end up here, do you suppose?” Fury asked, carefully. Steve shrugged a little.

“I’d say he escaped, then headed north, on foot most likely. Stole from villages, and then the Ruins to survive, and eventually got desperate or bold enough to try the inner keep”.

“But what about the documents?” Fury questioned. “He was caught red-handed with the parchment. Perhaps he intended to sell it” he deliberated. Steve grimaced a little, guilt rising within him.

“I think they were already in the bag he stole”. Fury frowned.

“No, they should have been sealed and bolted away” he said slowly, as realisation dawned. “Captain, tell me you didn’t leave highly sensitive files lying clear as day in your chambers?”.

“I can’t” said Steve. “I can’t be certain, but there’s a chance I did leave them out. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking, it was foolish”.

“And Lady Carter’s life could have been the cost of that foolishness” said Fury, anger in his voice now. “Look. We’re weathering the same storm. I’m not in your position but I understand how difficult it is when you can’t see a clear path. I know you get lost in the fog sometimes. But there are people out there risking their necks for you, day in, day out, and you better be damn sure you’re protecting them in return”.

Steve nodded, eyes downcast in shame. Even if James wasn’t a spy, as he suspected, if he’d managed to escape beyond the walls, then God only knows where the documents could’ve ended up.

“I’m sorry” he said.

“That’s not good enough. You need to do better, Steve” said Fury, voice a little gentler now it was clear the message had got through to him. “I have enough to worry about without you leaving papers in plain sight”.

“I know. I will, I swear it” said Steve, more determined now. Even if he struggled with his mind more days than not, he _had_ to stay aware for those working outside the relative safety of the Ruins. Peggy stuck her neck out for Steve every day, without knowing just how close he came to failing her.

“Your theory has promise” said Fury, moving on. “Though who’s to say Pierce didn’t torture the prisoner before sending him north? Maybe he has a hostage, someone he cares for”. Steve frowned. He hadn’t thought of that. Though James hadn’t once mentioned family, or friends.

“It’s a possibility” he admitted. “But more than anything, it seems like he simply wants to be released, and left alone”.

“Don’t even think about it” Fury warned, with an expression that told Steve he wouldn’t put it past him. “Even if he _is_ only guilty of the thefts, it would be unwise to let him go and risk him heading straight to Pierce”.

“Then he’ll be hanged for Wells’ death? Or Rollins will take his hand?” asked Steve, stomach knotting as he remembered the fluid movements of James’s knife. “I know he can be useful to us, I can feel it” said Steve, honestly. “Especially if he was held in the south. It would be such a waste, Nick”. Fury considered his words.

“You have a week” said Fury. “A week before he’s questioned again is probably all the council will allow. If there’s no movement from Pierce in that time, it’ll help your case. But don’t trust him for a second, Steve. He’s a murderer and a thief if nothing else”.

“A week” Steve repeated. To convince the majority of the council that James wasn’t a spy? That he could be useful to them, if he only told them what he knew? That if he fought with the Resistance, or trained others, they might have a chance? To make him trust Steve? It was too little time, with far too much riding on each day. He exhaled, nails digging into the calloused skin of his palm.

“Find out what you can from him” said Fury. “Whether it proves he’s working for Pierce or not. Then the council can decide what to do with him. Even without being a spy, he’s murdered a guard-”.

“In self-defence-”

“And stolen from our community. Our people don’t have much, he’ll have to pay somehow. Whether in life, or death”. 

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to convince him, to use his skills _or_ to tell me anything” said Steve, the difficulty of his task setting in. “He’s murdered my guard and I’ve imprisoned him, there’s no trust between us”.

“Nor should there be” said Fury. He pushed himself out of his chair, fixing Steve with an unwavering look. “But I’m sure you’ll find a way”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!! <3 I hope you enjoyed! 
> 
> And I also really hope this still all makes sense outside of my own head haha. Steve’s kinda making it up as he goes along, kinda knows what he’s doing. A bit like me writing this fic 😂please feel free to ask me if I haven't been clear or you have any questions! :)
> 
> [My tumblr](https://buckybees.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!! I really hope you liked it <3
> 
> I'm also part way through drawing a map for this fic, which will appear at the beginning of the chapter along with Steve's portrait soon I hope! But I've posted a moodboard to my tumblr in the mean time if you want to see more :)
> 
> [My tumblr](https://buckybees.tumblr.com/)


End file.
